Though my feet have trampled

from pavement to grass, 

from wood to carpet, 

from sand to stone;

My footfalls have sung 

through cafes and boutiques,

through homes and institutions,

My essence has yet to remain.

Neither Dickinson nor Whitman

can lend me a pen. 

Only by voyage will I persevere.

Soon the words will float 

from the bottom of the ocean, 

the depth of the canyons, 

beneath the layers of the Earth,

up to me. 

I dreamt that the skies were the color of tangerines. 

The clouds moved fast. 

We stood on balconies of grand structures, 

that were perched above the sea. 

I smiled blissfully, 

so did the others. 

No longer were they the people I had known 

Now they were free from worries and grief. 

They cared not for diamonds nor leather, 

for the blue waves were beneath them. 

The tides grasped for our abodes of marble. 

Above us were cliffs from which birds eternally squawked. 

They were not discontent, 

rather excited. 

Their hearts were too ticklish. 

We were enraptured. 

The leaves dance to the impish piano

Her melodies were vivid and clear

 They were ripe like apricots in the summer

With her triumphs, they rise 

With her sighs, they fell